oUR GROUP

---

Dealing with the wounds of war is not an easy thing. Most, simply, do not understand. Others don’t even want to take the time to understand. Still more, just want to push it all to the side as if none of this ever happened.

I deal with PTSD like many of the men I will be seeing tonight. This is real. As real as it gets. And many of the men you will see in this story have a similar tale to tell.

I walk into this small “man cave” on the property of one of the members of Vets Helping Vets. The first impression I get is one of busyness. It’s almost too much to take in on one visit. Yet I look around this room…a room filled with tables, chairs, coffee pot and other items and I find myself doing something that I have done for years…finding a place to sit where my back is not facing the entryways. I see the two doors that give access to the room. I decide which would be my quickest escape route should I need to leave the room in a hurry. I do this practically everywhere I go…restaurants, doctors’ offices, the mall. I even do this at home.

Unbeknownst to the others, I begin to observe them as they enter the room. Small talk is exchanged, handshakes and hugs are shared, jokes and insults are laughed about. There is a sense of joy in the room, but even more pervasive is the underlying sense of tension I feel. You see, these men are all combat veterans with a story they have carried most of their lives. We are all here for the same reasons…unity, comradery, and healing. That sensation of tension also creeps in because you never know what is going to be said, what you may have to relive, or deal with at this ninety-minute meeting.

If nothing else, honesty will be on full display at these meetings.

Here’s a note about honesty in a place like this…no one cares whether you like it or not. The honesty found in this isolated place is like honesty found nowhere else. Honesty is medicine.

This is not your garden variety counselling session. You can cuss if you need to, you can remain silent if that is your wish. Just don’t try to fool these men with false claims. They know the drill.

I look at each man as he seeks a place like mine…protected, near someone he has grown to trust.

The colors in the room are the next thing that really captivate me. I’m not speaking of the colors of the room itself, but the colors of the men themselves and the colors they wear. This room is made up of men from all nationalities, races, and creeds. Their colors tell their stories without one even knowing it. However, the colors that stand out the most are the colors found in their unit patches, their combat awards, and the different shades of grey in their hair, beards, and mustaches.

Some enter the room, moving very well and with ease. Others come in bearing the ravages of time, combat, and the burdens, wounds and scars they bear. Each man in this room has a tattoo. Some are on the outside, visible for all to see. The biggest and most profound though are found on their hearts and minds. These you cannot always see, but when you can, they display a message that few can understand. These tattoos are not like those on the outside. Most of these tattoos look more like something a young child would draw…many colors, many shapes and activity  everywhere that resembles nothing easily identifiable. These tattoos are their wartime experiences, where chaos, death and destruction were the rule of the day. Unlike their tattoos that spread across their outer bodies, the heart and mind tattoos can never be removed. They will be carried to their graves with them and are only visible when the veteran chooses to display them.

I observe the colors of their awards and decorations. These are outward, visible, and proudly displayed. I see the color Silver…the color of Jump Wings and our Nation’s third highest award, the Silver Star. These belong to a special breed of man. A man few can fully understand. I see the color Purple…belonging to those who were injured during combat operations, their scars still on display to this day. These scars become conversation starters for these men. A wound that never heals yet hides a mystery to understanding this man.

I see the Black, White, and Gold of the 101st Airborne Division, sitting right next to the Red, White, and Blue of the 82nd Airborne Division. I glance to my right, and I see the Red and Gold of the Proud United States Marine Corps. Seated just across the room are the colors of Blue and White, representing the United States Air Force. In the back, I sit with the colors of Tan and Black, presenting the United States Army Special Forces.  My gaze continues around the room, in awe and amazement. I see Bronze. Bronze is a special color for veterans. It identifies a veteran’s efforts on the battlefield, often with repeated awards. There’s the Bronze Star, awarded for Valor and the Bronze stars attached to their Combat Infantryman’s Badge.

Being in a room like this, with men of this caliber, always begs the question, “Do I really belong here? What have I done that even comes close to comparing with others around this room?”

That feeling is quickly dispelled as we all stand and recite the “Pledge of Allegiance.” It is in looking at “Old Glory” and proudly stating the words of the Pledge, that everyman in attendance realizes that yes, he does belong in this group.

The meeting opens when a Vietnam combat veteran, proudly wearing his 101st Airborne Division hat, welcomes everyone. Each has a chance to speak, and most do speak. Others choose to sit silently and take it all in. Either choice is fine. Speaking is what really matters. Everyone is a member of the Brotherhood, and an absence would make the group incomplete. When someone speaks, it shows the others that he has their back.

The discussions in this environment are passionate. We are changed men. Never again will we venture back to the fields we once walked before our days in combat zones. You can’t. It’s physically and mentally impossible. You cannot “unsee” what these men have seen and continue to see every night of their lives. Combat paints pictures upon our souls that are eternal.

Yet these men come to the Monday Night Meeting willingly. These stories they share take them back to that very moment in time when all this pain and suffering began. They are teenagers once again or men in their early twenties or even thirties. Nonetheless, they are somehow transported back in time…to a time when innocence was lost for them.

So, what is the Monday Night Meeting of combat veterans and veterans with PTSD all about?

If you are a combat veteran, it’s about your personal journey.

You are on a journey and sometimes you need the companionship of a trusted friend or loved one to simply hold your hand and walk silently with you.

You may be on a journey leading you them to a place like ours. A place where you can find comradery and hope.

You may be on a journey and sometimes that journey demands that you walk alone. Yet you are not alone, even when you appear to be. Like them, you may be carrying a lot of men around with you. You rucksack may be full of memories of days long past. Don’t try to remove that rucksack. That will only lead to a bad situation. Are you ready to take off your rucksack? When you are ready, this group of combat vets can give you a hand in carrying your heavy load. It’s a journey you too, won’t soon forget.